do." The words were defiant. Then he added, "I'll
shovel dung. I'll do anything. You don't know what
it's like, walking, sleeping in doorways, having cops
rout you out."
Sister Gladys looked up. "No, but I know what it
is to have people look at me and say, 'That's Old
Man Brown's daughter. Look at the rags.' I know
what it is to want to marry some one and have to
say, 'My father hasn't a job.' No man wants to
marry a girl that's living on corn meal ...
not in
this town, anyway. vVhat a person is, counts."
Dan faced them. The lamp went out. Through
the half darkness he could see sister Gladys's face,
a white blur above the dim table. Outside, feet
scraped over the road snow. Dan buttoned his coat.
It was an old army coat.
Pa Brown scratched a match. "It's hard on
Gladys," he said. "You know, Dan, folks here judge
you by how much you make. It doesn't matter that I
had a good job keeping books in the shoe factory.
No, it doesn't make any odds what I did. I'm broke
now."
Ma Brown was sobbing.
Dan opened the door. "I'll get the meal," he said.
"I'll be right back."
Outside, the wind was sweeping up the hill in icy
gusts. It crept through the worn cloth coat. Dan
shivered. When he looked back, the house was a
deeper shadow in the night.
People looked into his face. One man said, "Did
you do well in the city, Dan?" Then he laughed,
adding, "I guess you come home to a mighty poor
father. When a man doesn't lay aside money for
the future, there's not anything to fall back on
when a rainy day comes along."
The man back of the counter said, "Here's your
meal, Dan." Then he reached up and took a can
from a shelf. It was a can deeply dented, a can of
beans. "Here, Dan. Give this to your mother. It fell
on the floor and hit a box. I can't sell it, and at times
like these it's a crime to throw even a can of beans
away."
Dan took the can. For a long time he looked at
the dented tin. People in the store were whispering.
The whispering was like the wind, chill and bitter.
"Thanks, Mr. Joy ... thanks ...
," Dan heard
his own voice. He wanted a cigarette, to drag the
smoke deep into his lungs.
The man smiled and said, "I'm sorry you came
home, in a way, Dan. Things have been mighty hard
for your father the last two years. I hope you try
and get work, though there's no work that I know
ot."
Out on the street Dan paused. An old newspaper
was whirling across the street. His mind was blank,
dead. Streets ...
people looking into his face. He
had dreamed in doorways, when his feet were numb
with cold ...
dreamed that on these home streets
PARTISAN
REVIEW
AND ANVIL
there would be kind faces, voices greeting, glad that
he had come home. It had been foolish. The news-
paper caught about his ankles. Dan kicked the paper.
High overhead the moon came out. It was a thin
disc, cold and blue-white.
Dan glanced up. There was some one coming, a
boy perhaps twelve years old. He had no cap. His
hair was tossed by the wind. All at once, Dan knew.
He had scraped a hole in the frost and seen a man,
bent, walking into the coming night. He had heard
voices ... and taken a damaged can of beans. Dan
laughed.
The boy stopped. "What's funny, Mister? I don't
see anything to laugh at. It's awful cold."
The newspaper blew away, lifting in small crazy
movements.
"There's nothing funny, kid. No, nothing funny,
that you can see. Do you know where Mr. Brown
lives, up on the hill?"
The boy nodded. "My head is near frozen," he
said. "Times are hard .. Ma says we're lucky to have
a roof, let alone having cold heads."
Dan repeated, "Do you know where Mr. Brown
lives, up on the hill?"
The boy said, "Yes, I know. He's the man that
cleans backhouses ...
only folks don't pay much
now ...
maybe fifty cents. My pa says he won't
bother. He'd rather go hungry than do that."
Dan passed the boy the bundle. "Here, take this
to Mr. Brown. I'll give you my cap for pay. Then
your head won't be cold."
Lights in the store went out. Dan pushed his cap
low over the boy's eyes. "Hurry, Mrs. Brown wants
that bundle," Dan said. The boy ran down the street,
grasping the bundle tightly in his arms. There would
be corn mush and beans. Perhaps they had not eaten
beans for a long time. Perhaps it v;ould be weeks
before another can fell and was damaged.
On the outskirts of the town, Dan hailed a truck.
The driver said, "Walking far? It's a hellish
night to walk."
Dan nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm going a
long ways. I don't know how far."
He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled
a crust of bread from the dirt-stained depths, lifting
it to his lips, the stale taste filling his mouth, as the
driver said, his voice half drowned by the engine
and the rushing of wind, "I'll give you a lift as far
as Bangor. After that, you'll have to walk. Most of
the drivers have orders not to take bums on ... but
I ain't got the heart to refuse. It's a hellish night to
walk."
Dan swallowed (he crust. Then he closed his lips.
His eyes closed, and there was only a taste of
hunger, an empty taste, that mingled with dreams,
dreams of going home ... where a lamp full to the
brim of oil lighted a table piled high with food.
2]
